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When the dark-haired knight straggles into his room, streaks of blood still staining the sun-kissed skin of his cheeks and darkening the metallic black of his armor, scratched and marred with enemies’ strikes, Narsus blinks, book clattering onto the floor in his loosened grip.
“Daryun…” He stands up on shaky legs and mind swirling a blinding storm in search for words to say, but none of them sound right, so for a moment, the greatest tactician revered and feared in Pars can only remain frozen in place. He wishes to take the first step forward, to trace gentle fingertips across his unshaven jaw, to hold him tight within his embrace and ensure himself that he’s here – he’s here and breathing and alive.
“I’m back, Narsus.” His posture relaxes just the slightest, his broad shoulders dropping from his rigid pose – the perfect marble statue of the invincible Marzban crumbling into the pliant flesh of a mere man. With the hint of a frail smile just at the edge of his lips, and his usually piercing, golden eyes softening into something akin to gentleness, a naked fragility rarely shown on the Black Knight’s face, Daryun looks frighteningly defeated.
“You’re late,” Narsus fires back weakly, voice hoarse and low from being silent for so long, but it’s a habit – this back-and-forth bickering – it’s something they’re both familiar with and find comfort in.
“I apologize.” Daryun lowers his head, frayed locks of hair falling into his eyes.
Narsus can’t stand it, so he takes a step to close the distance between them.
One step, then another, and another, until he reaches the knight who towers over him, a hand gripping the back of Daryun’s neck, still moist with the sickening mixture of sweat and blood. He thinks nothing of it – not when Daryun attempts to back away with a murmured, “Don’t. I’m filthy.” Narsus only tugs harder, nails carving white, crescent moons on the knight’s bronze skin.
He takes the last step, head lowering to rest against Daryun’s shoulder; he’s standing so close that the stench of blood is almost dizzying, like he’s reliving a nightmare in a battlefield.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I’m capable of taking on 50,000 men alone, remember?” Daryun tries to make light of it, knowing fully well that it’s useless. “I will not allow myself to be defeated this easily.”
“You’re not immortal, you fool.” The register of his voice lowers further, just a whisper, a delicate release of breath against skin, and it’s warm and real.
“I know.” Daryun winds a hesitant arm around the slighter man’s waist, the crimson of his enemies’ blood tinting the pale blue of Narsus’ cloak into a bruised purple, turning it darker until it becomes blotches of black like fragments of a starless night. “I know.”